


Resounding in the darkest night

by bigchickcannibalistic



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff, cause that's literally what this fic is lmao, is there a tag for being a gay disaster?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28600593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: It’s a laugh that draws her in.(That’s not entirely true.)-----------or Pamitha and some big ole gay yearning
Relationships: Jodariel/Pamitha Theyn
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Resounding in the darkest night

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a fanart from Ependa right [here](https://twitter.com/Ependa_/status/1345572493583499266) and the brainworms started again.
> 
> Also this was supposed to be an exercise in figuring out how to write Pamitha's POV, but ehhhh it took a dive into gay yearning so... let's kick off a new year with some of that gay shit.
> 
> Title from Ad Infinitum's song 'Maleficent'

It’s a laugh that draws her in.

(That’s not entirely true.)

It’s a laugh more akin to the sound of bark snapping than to a proper laugh, and though Pamitha can count on one talon the amount of times she’s heard Sandalwood laugh, she’s certain it was him. Her brows raise so high she feels her forehead aching at the sight of _Hedwyn_ nearly doubled over with laughter, and thinks _Glad I didn’t bet on it_. Not that she had much to bet with anyway — a Highwing’s helmet, a flask of never-ending green liquid everybody and the Saint would rather not taste again, a deck of cards that’s seen better days (seen better feathers, too,) and a scarf —

_No_.

Pamitha’s wing goes up to the scarf, crimson mixing with a mesh of purples and pinks, up up up until her talon catches on a seam. Catches on where a dark threat is coiled into the material, glaring amid the purples. There used to be an even more glaring hole there, bitten through in times of frustration and pain, times before the flask was there to dull it all away. A time when her back stung with three deep lines down the length of it and Pamitha wanted to scream, to beg, to cry —

_Why why why why —_

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry —_

_Please —_

_(“Give it here,”_ Jodariel had said, hand outstretched expectantly and a weary look on her face, and Pamitha thought _, no, no it’s not weary._ She had teased ( _“Pestered,”_ Jodi would insist and Pamitha would wave it off) Jodariel enough to know what a weary Jodariel looked like. The bright blue eyes staring back at her were hesitant if anything.

_“Oh, this?”_ Pamitha tugged on the scarf, talons hooked right into the mouth-shaped hole and drawing Jodariel’s attention. _“It’s nothing.”_

_“No. It is something.”_ Jodariel’s brows had furrowed in one of those stern looks Pamitha has come to associate with remnants of Jodariel’s past as a Captain. _“Colder weather is approaching.”_

_“I’ve handled it fine before.”_ And Pamitha had given her one of her practiced grins, projecting confidence when the rest of her wished to curl up into a ball at the reminder of cold weather and clattering teeth.

She had thought she succeeded, read Jodariel’s glare, the tight line of her lips, and the dark around her eyes setting as shadows, as that of irritation, the kind she’s grown accustomed to greeting the end of her jabs.

But Jodariel had merely flexed her claws, inhaled and exhaled, shoulders shifting with the movement, and said, _“Pamitha”_ with the seriousness, the guardedness, the heavy gravel of her voice and Pamitha couldn’t help but hear a _Please_ and she’d been wrong.

This was an entirely new type of irritation. And Pamitha had found it easier to acquiesce rather than explore what _that_ meant. Or explore why her neck had felt warm without the scarf. Or why the way those blue eyes softened — just for a moment, a heartbeat, a breath — lingered with her so.)

Now, talons dance over the stitching, uneven and thick enough to catch her lips should she try to tug it off quickly, like a reminder that it’s there. It’s there, it happened, you didn’t imagine it. _You didn’t tear through it again._ Pamitha finds herself staring at the campfire — now bereft of the Nightwings save the Reader and Jodariel. Staring at it, though not really. Not if she’s being honest, and the night is dark enough for nobody to tell when she is, dark enough nobody can use it against her, can’t sharpen it and dig it into her flesh until it gives, until she —

_Stop it._

(Blue eyes narrowed, the shadows tugging deeper against her face, and Pamitha had been so focused on ignoring it, so focused on not being caught staring, she didn’t see Jodariel move until claws were tugging at her talons.

_“Stop that,”_ Jodariel grumbled, and her voice was so soft, so close Pamitha flinched, which in turn dug her talons further into her feathers and deepened the displeased look on Jodariel’s face — _oh._

_“I didn’t mean — just. Don’t,”_ Jodariel decided, eyes firm on where her claws are carefully unweeding Pamitha’s talons from her feathers. Careful, Pamitha realised, so she didn’t tear the feathers. So she didn’t do more damage than Pamitha had already done. Something lurched up Pamitha’s throat at the thought, and she pressed her lips together to keep it down.

She nearly choked when Jodariel’s claws lingered around her talons, curled around them protectively, when Jodariel’s eyes found her, when she spoke with an even softer voice, _“Don’t hurt yourself.”_ )

Pamitha exhales. She tugs on the scarf, buries her nose in it, closes her eyes and breathes in. It still smells of ash and blueberries. It had been days since Jodariel had returned it, since she had fussed over it nervously before breakfast and folded it with such care Pamitha nearly winced thinking what the scarf had lived through. She almost didn’t want to unfold it, but Jodariel was throwing her side glances when she thought Pamitha wasn’t looking and — and it brought something warm in Pamitha’s chest. Had her lips curling to the side without a jab to follow or a tease on her tongue.

No, she brought the scarf to her nose, inhaled ash and blueberries and smiled like she feels herself smiling now. Happy. Unburdened. Genuine. _Like a fledgling with a crush_ , a voice too-close to Tamitha’s hisses in her ear, but it doesn’t hold her, doesn’t drag against her neck and back, doesn’t have her reaching for the flask of green liquid to push it away. Because it’s not a crush.

It’s not a _crush_.

It stopped being a crush the moment she dragged her feathers against Jodariel’s shoulder after breakfast, the instance she curled them under her chin, the heartbeat —two, three, four — it took her to press her lips against Jodariel’s cheek instead of the perfectly cordial _Thank you_ because she wouldn’t be Pamitha Theyn if she merely does the cordial thing. It definitely wasn’t a crush when she all but raced out of the Blackwagon afterward in a flutter of wings, and absolutely wasn’t a crush when she hid in the nearby trees, heart racing and hiding her crimson face behind crimson feathers.

A crush is when Pamitha finds her heart racing at the sight of Jodariel splitting a log of wood with her bare hands without breaking a sweat. A pretty big crush when you find yourself watching intently, and Pamitha is not above admitting it, okay.

It’s absolutely above crush height when Pamitha watches Jodariel sit by the campfire, watches her try to studiously follow the Reader’s stories as they become less and less coherent the later it gets, watches her curl up around her knees, cloak coming forward like a blanket and her hair almost glowing in the firelight — watches all of that and finds her heart trying to escape her chest. Finds herself wishing to be in those arms, wrapped in that cloak and curled against Jodariel.

Finds herself wanting it so much she buries her head in her wings and groans because she is in serious, _serious_ trouble. Trouble a flask of endless green liquid will not wash away. Trouble reshuffling and organising her deck of cards isn’t going to bore away. Trouble a scarf smelling of ash and blueberries will _absolutely, 100%_ make the utter _worst_ and yet.

And yet.

Pamitha buries her nose in that scarf, and _wants._

It’s late enough that she can blame it on tiredness. Or how cold the night is. Or taking one gulp of green alcohol too many. Or on it just being one of the many Harp eccentricities — though at the rate Jodariel keeps sending her sharp, dubious looks, the excuse might’ve run its course. Saint blast it all, she’ll outright admit to wanting a cosy pillow instead of the roof or branch or wagon floor, no matter how carpeted it is.

But she’ll never admit, not even if it meant she’ll leave the Downside, it’s the small smile that drew her in, the shy, little indulging smile and the very physical need for Pamitha to see it up close.

(That’s not entirely true, either.)

(She wants to feel it against her skin, too)

And so Pamitha finds herself slipping off the roof, making a quick detour to the Wagon, and easily gliding to where Jodariel’s sitting. Finds herself landing loudly — well, loud for a _Harp_ —finds herself humming so Jodariel doesn’t turn the mild flinch into a punch (once was enough, thank you.) Finds herself waiting for that hesitant look to turn knowing to turn curious; waiting, with a small, harmless grin on her face, for Jodariel to say, “Pamitha.”

Not _Harp_ , but _Pamitha._ Pamitha can’t pinpoint exactly when Jodariel had changed from the usual suspicious glares to exasperated looks, when the tight line of her lips switched for a small curl upward. It still sends a thrill down her back, has her grin softening into something indulgent, and a part of her is clawing at her to turn back, _put that away, it’s too obvious, too risky, too —_

“Jodi.” Pamitha eyes flutter to the other side of the campfire and she offers a little wave at the half-asleep Reader. “Reader, darling.”

The Reader raises her hand from her blanket cocoon sleepily, and Pamitha feels a wave at the back of her mind, followed by an apologetic half-formed thought, pierced only by Jodariel’s, “You’re not asleep.”

“No. But the Reader’s certainly getting there,” Pamitha hums. She turns in time to catch Jodariel looking over at the Reader, in time to catch the small, adoring smile on her face, to catch the way the fire brightens the shadows around her eyes, how it softens her face.

Pamitha’s wing witches at her side, and instead she pats Jodariel’s shoulder. “Scoot over, will you, Jodi?”

She doesn’t wait for Jodariel’s answer, barely waits for her to straighten with a questioning look, barely waist for the cloak to slide back and reveal just a sliver of bent knees before she’s moving with a speed to rival the best among her sisters.

And so Pamitha finds herself wiggling until she’s pressed between Jodariel’s legs, until she’s wedged herself below Jodariel’s chin and, until her bare toes are basking in the warmth of the fire. It’s only as she curls backwards into the warmth, pillow tucked beneath her chin, that the stiff arms around her shift, minutely, and the warmth against her back shivers with an exhale.

Had — Had Jodariel been holding her breath?

“Are you done?” Jodariel asks, voice underlined with a strained growl, and Pamitha feels her clear her throat. Pamitha feels her lips curl into a wicked thing.

“Just about, darling.” She straightens her wings, purposefully gliding her feathers against the underside of Jodariel’s arms, glides them just shy of the inside of Jodariel’s wrist before she curls them back. She watches as claws curl into fists, the darkness — not unlike the night sky, not unlike the nights Pamitha glided through to calm her thoughts back Before — a void against the firelight, and the shudder that follows has Pamitha bite her lip to stifle the smile, reminds her why she loves teasing Jodariel so much.

Gives her hope the looks aren’t just a figment of her imagination, caught at the edge of her vision, the lingering touches aren’t just wishful thinking.

But then the chest behind her rumbles with a hum, and those same claws uncurl as the arms in turn curl closer until Pamitha feels them dance over her feathers. Dance not unlike how one of her Harp sister’s feathers danced on the lyre, chasing the softest melodies. The touch stutters something in Pamitha’s chest, much like the soft melodies, and entranced Pamitha watches a void against crimson, scars against clipped feathers. They dance only for the claws slip beneath crimson feathers with a cunning Pamitha wouldn’t associate with Jodariel and then —

And then she feels hands firmly press into her sides, and warmth seeps through the clothes, burns into her skin, soars through her in time as the warmth behind her presses closer, as if it’s trying to etch into Pamitha’s bare back, curls around her like a cloak, bites down a chocked gasp. Her right ear twitches against something and belatedly Pamitha recognises it as Jodariel’s cheek, just as it belatedly recognises the scratch against her head as Jodariel’s horn.

You’d understand, all of her is quite, very much, absolutely focused on the hum breathed against her ear, barely catching on whiffs of ash and blueberries, and trying desperately not to blush. So focused she nearly misses the quiet, “What are you doing?”

_Dying._

She breathes in and out, unsteady; and swears the hum by her ear turns amused. She scours her brain for any thought that isn’t _Saint, help me I want to hear that again —_ “It’s cold.”

“And you are barefoot,” she says matter-of-fact, rasp holding hints of irritation and Pamitha feels herself dancing back toward familiar territory. Teasing Jodariel, she knows like the back of her wing. Teasing Jodariel while supressing the want to kiss her mad at the same time is — something she’s getting familiar with.

“Am I?” Pamitha dares to lean back, to slide from under Jodariel’s horn so she can look at her face, noses just shy of touching.

_Very_ familiar with.

It’s the way those blue eyes shine in the campfire, how Pamitha feels at the centre of Jodariel’s gaze and yet isn’t pressured by it. How gold bangs would fall over her face, and Pamitha would comb them back without thought, would be careful to tuck the hairs between the base of the horn and the top of her ear. How her wing would slide down with a barely there touch on Jodariel’s cheek, and those blue eyes soften in a way Pamitha had thought entirely foreign on Jodariel’s strict, shadowed face, the emotion just on the brink Pamitha thought she’d never see, would never be directed at her, would never be _because_ of _her_.

(This isn’t the whole truth.)

Or maybe it’s the way Jodariel leans closer as the feathers whisper against her face, how several catch on Jodariel’s lips and how Pamitha’s breath stutters in her throat, how she wants to curl those feathers against Jodariel’s chin and lean forward just so and feel those lips against her own.

But she doesn’t.

_Coward._

_Love-sick bird._

“Impossible,” Jodariel sighs an exasperated breath, which would be more impactful where she not smiling and looking at Pamitha like she’s the most precious thing.

And Pamitha thanks the Saint for whatever part of her brain continues to work, plasters a confident lopsided twist of her lips, and says, “I do my utmost best, darling.”

She thanks the Saint again when the same part of her has enough grace to turn around so she’s back to staring at the campfire and the snoring Reader on the other side, and absolutely ignoring Jodariel’s considering rumble against her back, because Saint preserve her, _she has it bad_.

Jodariel shifts behind her, her arms slip away. Before Pamitha can whine at the loss, a cloak covers her shoulders proper, and the arms return to her side, go further until they’re wrapped securely around her waist, hands pressing the pillow closer to her chest —

“The pillow?” Jodariel wonders above her, chin pressing into Pamitha’s head and — well, truth be told Pamitha sorta forgot about the pillow. Thinking back on it, it’s a foolish idea. Ridiculous. _Soft._ Indulgent.

_Worse than jumping into Jodariel’s lap just because?_

Pamitha breathes out through her nose, and offers the pillow without looking at Jodariel.

“For you, actually.” Jodariel’s chin slides against her head, a thoughtful sound ruffling her hairs. “For your neck. We don’t want you to get a crick, now do we?”

It’s a silent moment, with the campfire cracking providing the only reprieve. Pamitha’s nerves are pulled taunt, like a lyre, and she’s _this_ close to tugging it herself and taking the pillow for herself when an arm moves from her side.

“How thoughtful,” Jodariel says as the pillow’s carefully taken. It takes a bit of nudging and twisting about, and Pamitha even turns so she can nudge the pillow more snugly against Jodariel’s neck, before Pamtiha’s back against Jodariel’s front, snug in her arms, warm and content.

Sleep nearly drags her, when Jodariel’s chin moves, and something presses against Pamitha’s head. Quickly, yet sturdy enough, real enough she cannot mistake it for a dream. Just how she cannot mistake the whisper of, _Thank you_ following it, and it has a shiver run down her back.

Jodariel’s arms tighten around her. “You’re shivering,” Jodariel says, and were Pamitha anyone else, she would glare at the amusement colouring Jodariel’s voice, would raise a feather pointedly at the smile pressed to her head.

But Pamitha’s not anybody else.

“I’m _fine_.”

She’s Pamitha Theyn and also might be just a little bit in love with Jodariel.

————————

Morning greets her with a rumble against her side, of something warm shifting against her back, of something fiddling with her feathers. Morning greets her with light hitting her eyes, and Pamitha buries her face into her pillow. The rumbling increases.

“Too early,” Pamitha mumbles somewhere between a dream and coherence. The same spot where she feels something comb through her bangs. The same place something catches on her ear, slides against her cheek with so gentleness rivalling silk. The same place she feels lips press against her forehead, lingering, indulging.

But it’s closer to coherence where she hears, feels, the words, “Sleep. I’ll be here.”

The truth is: it’s Jodariel. And somewhere deep, Pamitha realises it’s always been Jodariel.


End file.
